Over the Table and Through the Giggles
by HermioneGirl96
Summary: John has insisted on hosting a Christmas party. Again. Everyone but Sherlock is drinking, and John is telling stories about Sherlock, and suddenly Sherlock decides to kiss John. Plotless fluff. T for alcohol.


**Disclaimer: The characters herein belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gattis, and Stephen Thompson.**

**Dedication: To Hannah. For so many reasons.**

**A/N: This is a really plotless, fluffy one-shot based on my friends and me acting ridiculously. The alcohol is a fabrication; my friends and I are just ridiculous people. I actually have very little experience with drunk people, so please forgive whatever inaccuracies may follow.**

John had insisted on holding a Christmas party. Again. As if it had gone well last time. Now everyone but Sherlock was drinking—he detested how _slow_ depressants made him feel; stimulants were always his drug of choice, but John would have frowned on him bringing cocaine to a Christmas party, or even cigarettes. Instead, he sat in the middle of the sofa and noticed how red Lestrade's face was getting, to his left, and how incessant Molly's giggle was becoming, to his right, and how Mrs. Hudson was spilling on the chair across the room and how John's military tension was melting away as he topped off yet another glass.

Half the reason Molly was giggling was that John was telling stories. About Sherlock.

". . . and then, he says he doesn't know the sun goes around the moon!"

Which certified that John was well and truly drunk, because Sherlock had done some research since being deemed "spectacularly ignorant," as it didn't do to be seen as a complete idiot in any regard, after all—and the sun definitely did _not_ go around the moon.

Sherlock was the only one who noticed the factual inaccuracy in John's punchline, or that this story was one of the oldest and most overused in John's repertoire; everyone else just started laughing uproariously. Actually, Lestrade was the only one whose pulmonary activity could really be described as _laughter_; John and the women were definitely _giggling_.

Oh, John's giggle.

Sherlock made a snap decision. He stood, set his left foot squarely on the table in front of him, stepped over the table with his right foot, and closed the distance between himself and John in a few more quick, confident strides.

John stopped giggling for a moment—well, mostly—to say, "Yeah, okay, slap me. I deserve it." The last word was nearly lost in a renewed giggle fit.

The giggles only paused again when Sherlock pressed his mouth firmly against John's. Even then, bursts of mirth bubbled from one open mouth into the other, and John tasted heavily of wine but even more of happiness and warmth, and Sherlock wanted to drink him in, depressants and all.

The giggles died out and a few moments later Sherlock realized that John might need air. Regretfully, he pulled away. Asphyxiation would be a decidedly unromantic end to a first kiss.

Walking back to the sofa, Sherlock took the long way around, skirting the table and avoiding Molly's legs as much as he could before plunking himself back down in the hollow that was his. Only once seated did he dare glance at John, who was staring at him in obvious befuddlement.

"What? I thought you were going to slap me."

"You were laughing at me. That always makes you want to kiss you."

"What? But—what?" John was giggling again. "That doesn't make any sense!"

"Sentiment doesn't, as a rule," Sherlock remarked dryly.

John stood, which took a few tries as he gathered the momentum necessary to depart from his chair, and then he ambled his way over to the sofa and sat heavily—almost fell—on Lestrade.

Lestrade immediately looked at his lap, confused about the sudden weight that had just placed itself there. His attention seemed drawn to John's denim-clad leg, which he began to caress, starting at the outside of the thigh and fixating on the knee. "Pretty leg," he said, slurring the words somewhat.

John began giggling violently. Sherlock found he could do little but stare.

Lestrade's petting went on for about a minute before he shoved John into Sherlock and scooted out from under him. "You're heavy." With that, Lestrade managed to heave himself off of the sofa and head in the approximate direction of John's recently vacated chair.

John snuggled up against Sherlock, laying his head against Sherlock's chest. The giggles subsided. "It worked."

Sherlock looked down at the mass of honey-colored hair occupying the space directly beneath his own head and felt a bloom of warmth in the region of his stomach. Sentiment was a chemical . . . defect? Phenomenon. Sentiment was a chemical phenomenon. "What worked?"

"My plan."

"You had a plan? What plan? Why did you need a plan?"

"I knew if I sat on Lestrade he'd go away. And then this . . . happening . . . could happen." He nuzzled his head against Sherlock's chest, which felt inexplicably tingly.

"I've never understood you two," commented Lestrade from across the room.

Sherlock's head jerked upward and his eyes found Lestrade. "No, of course you didn't. You're an idiot."

"What? I am n—"

"So are you," John said, turning his head outward so that at least he wasn't speaking directly into Sherlock's lap. "You're the smartest idiot I've ever met. Or the stupidest jean . . . thingy."

"Genius?" Sherlock supplied.

"Yeah. That."

"But—but I learned that the earth goes around the sun!"

John snorted. "You don't know anything that isn't for your wife. Work. That thing you're married to."

"That's not true! I have hidden talents!"

"Not bloody likely," scoffed Lestrade. "Every talent you have, you show off for all it's work. Worm. Worth."

"No I don't! I can"—what the hell, they were all too drunk to remember in the morning anyway—"I can dance!"

"I'll be your partner," Molly volunteered, slopping wine onto the floor as she hastened to set down her glass.

"No, I'll do this by myself." Sherlock placed Molly's glass back in her hand and then stood and made his way around the table to where there was a bit more space. Holding out his arms, he said, "We learned this one in school."

It was a folk dance, more or less, although Sherlock had stylized it somewhat to his taste. As he danced, he hummed, recalling the tune in all of its screechy horror. That teacher had actually thought he could play the violin. Sherlock had wanted to snap the man's bow in half. There had been a decent melody buried in the mishandled vibrato and wrong notes, though, and it was that—the _real_ tune—that Sherlock was humming.

When he had finished the dance, he bowed. More wine spilled as everyone in the room applauded.

Sherlock walked back over to the sofa and sat next to John. As they kissed again, Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, "It's about bloody time!"


End file.
